Other strangers would spot us from the other side of the street. B.B. would yell ‘Leg it!’ as the enemy dashed through traffic and leapt over the bonnets of cars to get at us, screaming obscenities and chasing us up alleys, across allotments, around reservoirs, and on and on.
And then, in the evening, B.B. took me to meet with the other lads. We climbed the park railings and strolled across to the football pitch, by the goal posts. This is where the lads congregated to hunt down Pakistanis and beat them. Most of them I was at school with. The others I’d grown up with. I knew their parents. They knew my father.
I withdrew, from the park, from the lads, to a safer place, within myself. I moved into what I call my ‘temporary’ period. I was only waiting now to get away, to leave the London suburbs, to make another kind of life, somewhere else, with better people.
In this isolation, in my bedroom where I listened to Pink Floyd, the Beatles and the John Peel Show, I started to write down the speeches of politicians, the words which helped create the neo-Nazi attitudes I saw around me. This I called ‘keeping the accounts’.
In 1965, Enoch Powell said: ‘We should not lose sight of the desirability of achieving a steady flow of voluntary repatriation for the elements which are proving unsuccessful or unassimilable.’
In 1967, Duncan Sandys said: ‘The breeding of millions of half-caste children would merely produce a generation of misfits and create national tensions.’
I wasn’t a misfit; I could join the elements of myself together. It was the others, they wanted misfits; they wanted you to embody within yourself their ambivalence.
Also in 1967, Enoch Powell — who once said he would love to have been Viceroy of India — quoted a constituent of his as saying that because of the Pakistanis ‘this country will not be worth living in for our children’.
And Powell said, more famously: ‘As I look ahead I am filled with foreboding. Like the Roman, “I seem to see the River Tiber foaming with much blood”.’
As Powell’s speeches appeared in the papers, graffiti in support of him appeared in the London streets. Racists gained confidence. People insulted me in the street. Someone in a café refused to eat at the same table with me. The parents of a girl I was in love with told her she’d get a bad reputation by going out with darkies.
Powell allowed himself to become a figurehead for racists. He helped create racism in Britain and was directly responsible not only for the atmosphere of fear and hatred but, through his influence, for individual acts of violence against Pakistanis.
Television comics used Pakistanis as the butt of their humour. Their jokes were highly politicaclass="underline" they contributed to a way of seeing the world. The enjoyed reduction of racial hatred to a joke did two things: it expressed a collective view (which was sanctioned by its being on the BBC), and it was a celebration of contempt in millions of living rooms in England. I was afraid to watch TV because of it; it was too embarrassing, too degrading.
Parents of my friends, both lower-middle-class and working-class, often told me they were Powell supporters. Sometimes I heard them talking, heatedly, violently, about race, about ‘the Pakis’. I was desperately embarrassed and afraid of being identified with these loathed aliens. I found it almost impossible to answer questions about where I came from. The word ‘Pakistani’ had been made into an insult. It was a word I didn’t want used about myself. I couldn’t tolerate being myself.
The British complained incessantly that the Pakistanis wouldn’t assimilate. This meant they wanted the Pakistanis to be exactly like them. But of course even then they would have rejected them.
The British were doing the assimilating: they assimilated Pakistanis to their world view. They saw them as dirty, ignorant and less than human — worthy of abuse and violence.
At this time I found it difficult to get along with anyone. I was frightened and hostile. I suspected that my white friends were capable of racist insults. And many of them did taunt me, innocently. I reckoned that at least once every day since I was five years old I had been racially abused. I became incapable of distinguishing between remarks that were genuinely intended to hurt and those intended as ‘humour’.
I became cold and distant. I began to feel I was very violent. But I didn’t know how to be violent. If I had known, if that had come naturally to me, or if there’d been others I could follow, I would have made my constant fantasies of revenge into realities, I would have got into trouble, willingly hurt people, or set fire to things.
But I mooched around libraries. There, in an old copy of Life magazine, I found pictures of the Black Panthers. It was Eldridge Cleaver, Huey Newton, Bobby Seale and their confederates in black vests and slacks, with Jimi Hendrix haircuts. Some of them were holding guns, the Army.45 and the 12-gauge Magnum shotgun with 18-inch barrel that Huey specified for street fighting.
I tore down my pictures of the Rolling Stones and Cream and replaced them with the Panthers. I found it all exhilarating. These people were proud and they were fighting. To my knowledge, no one in England was fighting.
There was another, more important picture.
On the cover of the Penguin edition of The Fire Next Time, was James Baldwin holding a child, his nephew. Baldwin, having suffered, having been there, was all anger and understanding. He was intelligence and love combined. As I planned my escape I read Baldwin all the time, I read Richard Wright and I admired Muhammad Ali.
A great moment occurred when I was in a sweet shop. I saw through to a TV in the backroom on which was showing the 1968 Olympic Games in Mexico. Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists on the victory rostrum, giving the Black Power salute as the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ played. The white shopkeeper was outraged. He said to me: they shouldn’t mix politics and sport.
During this time there was always Muhammad Ali, the former Cassius Clay, a great sportsman become black spokesman. Now a Muslim, millions of fellow Muslims all over the world prayed for his victory when he fought.
And there was the Nation of Islam movement to which Ali belonged, led by the man who called himself the Messenger of Islam and wore a gold-embroidered fez, Elijah Muhammad.
Elijah was saying in the mid-1960s that the rule of the white devils would end in fifteen years. He preached separatism, separate development for black and white. He ran his organisation by charisma and threat, claiming that anyone who challenged him would be chastened by Allah. Apparently Allah also turned the minds of defectors into a turmoil.
Elijah’s disciple Malcolm X, admirer of Gandhi and self-confirmed anti-Semite, accepted in prison that ‘the key to a Muslim is submission, the attunement of one towards Allah’. That this glorious resistance to the white man, the dismissal of Christian meekness, was followed by submission to Allah and worse, to Elijah Muhammad, was difficult to take.
I saw racism as unreason and prejudice, ignorance and a failure of sense; it was Fanon’s ‘incomprehension’. That the men I wanted to admire had liberated themselves only to take to unreason, to the abdication of intelligence, was shocking to me. And the separatism, the total loathing of the white man as innately corrupt, the ‘All whites are devils’ view, was equally unacceptable. I had to live in England, in the suburbs of London, with whites. My mother was white. I wasn’t ready for separate development. I’d had too much of that already.